


She walks in beauty (Like the light)

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Jon Snow is King in the North, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Jon Snow, R Plus L Equals J, Sansa never escaped Ramsay, Scars, Wedding, kind of?, no beta we die like ned stark, probably some mind fuckery too, you know the typical 'warning: RAMSAY' tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: She remembered when the suggestion had first been proposed to him in the great hall, how tense and reticent he’d grown in his seat before the hearth.“You’d have me wed my own sister?” he’d asked in a threatening sort of quietude, sparking grey eyes and cold steel warping his tone.“Not by blood, your grace,” the Lord had stammered nervously, eyes wide with a hint of fear. “Lady Sansa is but your cousin, of course, and a Stark. It’s not uncommon —frequent really — for such relatives to wed, as I’m sure your grace is aware. I believe I speak for all present when I suggest such a union could only benefit your standing.”“He has a point,” she’d spoken out before Jon could.The hall had grown impossibly quiet then, the low crackling of the burning wood in the hearth filling the emptiness with the loudness of war drums in their ears.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	She walks in beauty (Like the light)

**Author's Note:**

> So, as is going to be amply clear, I know fuck all about politics and formalities in medieval ages, so I just kind of glossed over it and made it up as I went.  
> GoT tv weddings are very confusing, never showing the same rituals or making them different, and I’m only halfway through the first book, so I didn’t really know how best to write it. I just smacked a bunch of things together and hoped they stuck.  
> Also yes I’m aware that Sansa is taller than Jon in the show but I’m a sucker for height differences so I’m just very shamelessly going to ignore that minor detail.  
> Oof I have no idea what I'm doing starting a wip in another fandom when I already have 5 waiting somewhere else. Also this is kind of the first time I've written het, so I hope I can do it as well xD I did like writing from the perspective of woman a lot, it's nice to vary.
> 
> I also completely made up my own divergent canon. Basically Sansa never escaped from Winterfell and was only freed after the battle of the bastards, which Jon won. This is also pretending that Ned actually told Jon who his mother was before going south, so he knew all along and decided to act on it when everything went to shit. So everyone kind of knows now.
> 
> Title is the first line of the poem 'She Walks in Beauty' by Lord Byron.

Sansa looked at her reflection in the slightly rusted over mirror, taking in the pretty white lace of her dress and the long loose sleeves, flowing like waterfalls off her shoulders. She looked good, beautiful -- regal even. She had looked so before as well.

That’s what everyone liked to say to her. How great her beauty was, how gorgeous her hair looked shimmering in the sun — threads of burning embers cascading over her back like curtains of fire. She wore it down now, to the ceremony -- a couple thin braids tied up at the top of her head to give her a more formal appearance. She refused to pin it all up again, the way she had not even two years past in this very place.

This time it was her choice, she reminded herself. Although the one before had been as well… at first.

But no one was pressuring her, not like back then. Not like the looming threat of Lannister greed or the quiet manipulation of Littlefinger hanging over her head. This was different, for a great many reasons, but chiefly because she trusted him — she trusted Jon. He was quite possibly the person she trusted the most in her life at the moment — everyone else was gone — and that might be what was scaring her the most.

He was a good man. She remembered his kind and gentle mannered disposition from their childhood years, even if at the time she’d gone out of her way to avoid any and all interaction with the bastard son of Winterfell. He was changed now, a man grown — how could he not be? Time spared no one, especially the just and honest — but he had remained kind-hearted through its passing, just as he’d been all those years ago. Of that, she was certain.

When he took Winterfell and freed her, those first few days after the battle, she had tried to reconcile the boy she remembered with the man she was then coming to know, jaded by loss and hardship, just as she was. They were mere echoes of the people they started out as — in a way polar opposites, but, under a different light, exactly the same.

The union hadn’t been his idea, quite the contrary really, and Jon had voiced his opinion clearly and openly on the matter. She thought she should find it odder, be more reluctant towards it — he obviously expected her to — but, after the cards fate had dealt her, marrying him didn’t seem like such a burden to bear at all.

The Lords were right, it was the best and easiest path to solidify their position and stake their claim on the north — the union of their houses.

Any reminder to Jon’s true heritage left him... uneasy, though. She understood why — why he had so much trouble connecting his own self with that whom his birthright pressured him into being. But also, he’d spent all his life wishing to belong, to be part of something, to be regarded as an equal by his family, and now he felt even that had been taken away from him — the family he never had. At least not in name.

She hadn’t understood that before, as a child. She’d been naive, shallow and vain. But she saw it now.

She’d asked him, soon after Ramsay had been executed, “So, should I call you Aegon now? Sixth of his name?”

He’d made a face at the title, told her, “Gods, no. I have always been, and always will be, Jon Snow.”

He'd been every inch the wolf then, and most days she struggled to even see a shred of dragon in him. He was a northerner, through and through, sometimes more so than she, and that was something no one could take from him. It made sense he’d want to cling to it.

This wasn’t the life he’d envisioned for himself. He may not have wanted any of this, but, perhaps, that was precisely what made him the perfect man to bear the crown.

She remembered when the suggestion had first been proposed to him in the great hall, how tense and reticent he’d grown in his seat before the hearth. She’d been to his left, where her mother had once sat beside their Lord father — the second most powerful seat in the hall— and she’d seen the way his fists had curled atop the armrests, how his jaw had locked in place, a single muscle ticking underneath.

Jon did not once interrupt the Lords, but his glare and stance were enough to leave the man acting as their mouthpiece anxious and sheepish throughout his final words. Once he’d finished speaking, silence fell heavy and oppressive over the great hall, as solid as a boulder, and no man dared move it. Jon did not budge from his seat either, letting the unnatural quiet wash over them, letting them stew in their uneasiness.

“You’d have me wed my own sister?” he’d asked in a threatening sort of quietude, sparking grey eyes and cold steel warping his tone.

“Not by blood, your grace,” the Lord had stammered nervously, eyes wide with a hint of fear. “Lady Sansa is but your cousin, of course, and a Stark. It’s not uncommon —frequent really — for such relatives to wed, as I’m sure your grace is aware. I believe I speak for all present when I suggest such a union could only benefit your standing.”

“He has a point,” she’d spoken out before Jon could.

The hall had grown impossibly quiet then, the low crackling of the burning wood in the hearth filling the emptiness with the loudness of war drums in their ears.

Jon had had his mouth opened to offer the lord some retort, most likely to tear into the man, but he’d closed it at her interruption, and shifted to give her an incredulous look between twin furrowed brows.

“You’d go along with this?” he’d asked, confusion and something inscrutable she’d wager to be along the margins of curiosity coating his voice.

She’d turned to him, studying his carefully guarded expression with intelligent eyes. He kept all his intentions and emotions locked behind closed doors now, showing only what he intended to. It was hard to deduce much about what he was truly feeling at the prospect, and Sansa had learnt to read people from the best.

“It’s a sound tactic,” she’d shrugged. “You’d gain the permanent support of most if not all the northern houses and cement your position as their king. Cersei would lose whatever little advantage she still holds over our lands and you’d be unencumbered to prepare for the great war.”

Chagrin had twisted his face at the reminder of his title, as it usually did, but it lasted merely a second. His face returned to its carefully practiced blankness, an almost perfect mask. Sometimes she really hated that schooled impassiveness, though she knew she was guilty of employing the same tactics.

Jon continued to overrule the idea for the following weeks, but, eventually, the lords’ insistence, fueled by her own apparent willingness, was enough to wear down even his iron will. The wedding had been scheduled for the following fortnight, with preparations and planning underway. She’d taken it upon herself to deal with the logistics of the event - they didn’t need a large banquet, nor could they afford one. They had to fill up their stores for the coming winter, which would make the wedding a very austere affair indeed.

He came to her chambers one night - the room where her parents had once shared a bed and a life. He’d insisted she keep the quarters after he’d liberated Winterfell and freed her from Ramsay’s abuse, even though the honor should have fallen to him. She supposed it wouldn’t matter much now — they’d be expected to share the same sleeping quarters after they were wed, and, unlike her previous marriages, she was willing to make an effort for this one.

She’d been going over the ledgers when she heard him knock, two raps of his knuckles, gentle yet firm. She wondered what it meant, that she could recognize him by the way he knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she spoke out, taking a final look at their grain storage.

A couple seconds passed before he stepped inside the room, closing the door quietly behind him. She put the quill down and peered up at him, noting the steady frown on his face and the brooding look that came with it. She had a fair idea of what he’d come here to say.

The silence dragged on, empty space in which he seemed to be debating with himself, picking his words and choosing his cue. She waited patiently for him to get his bearings, maintaining a calm and serene face. She had no wish to rush him. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, his tone was still rather confused and unsure.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” It hadn’t exactly been a question, even though it had been phrased as one.

She looked at him more closely, studying the little tells in his expression. He hadn’t many, but she’d learned to read him better in the following weeks. She was fairly sure what brought him here had been a combination of self-doubt, confusion and his own hopeless sense of honor.

“I know,” she said simply.

The quiet confirmation was not enough to satisfy him, though - she could see he still had reservations about her true wishes. It was a nice thought to think such things could ever matter in reality. After the years she’d had, she found it truly hard to believe in such a concept again. Regardless, the fact that he believed in it, reinforced the idea that he could very well be the best option she’d ever get.

“Say the word and we’ll call it off.”

She sighed, glancing down and closing the ledger. She’d continue on the morrow, this conversation was sure to wear her down.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She could sense his disbelief without even having to look at him.

When she did, though, she noticed the line that had formed between his brows, deepening his frown. She had the sudden urge to get up and go to him, trace the curve with her fingers and knead it away, let her hands ghost over the scars below his cheekbones. She wanted to know their story, what secrets they kept hidden behind dark sad eyes, but she did not budge from her seat, and the urge passed. He was quiet, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Why?” He settled on, regarding her with something she’d say was half parts curiosity and perplexity. “Surely there’s someone else you’d prefer. A more agreeable prospect than you bastard half-brother turned cousin.”

She pushed her chair back, the wooden legs scraping lightly on the stone floor beneath them, and rose to her feet. She felt this was a conversation best had on even grounds, and any unnecessary asymmetry between them was best left eliminated.

“Have you ever hurt a woman? Raised your hand to one? Degrade their honor or abuse their trust?”

“I-- ” a remorseful wince contorted his face and she fought back the urge to roll her eyes.

“Purposefully?” she stressed.

“...no.”

“Would you offer me the same treatment? Would you listen to what I have to say, take my opinions into consideration and not take my support for granted?”

“Of course,” he agreed promptly, his tone taking on an almost offended note.

“Then you have your answer,” she explained, circumventing the desk so she could stand in front of him. “We need to unite the North. We need to keep our people safe. From the enemies north _and_ south. This is the best way.”

He grew silent, his grey eyes searching her face for what she assumed was any shred of doubt or second thoughts. There were none.

“You’re sure?” He still asked, eyes wavering to meet hers. “I’m not confident I’d make the best husband.”

“I don’t need a great man, Jon,” she sighed, leaning her weight back against the desk. “But I _would_ like a good one. Just promise me you’ll try your best to be that for me.”

He nodded slowly, determination hardening in his eyes, “Aye, I promise.”

She presented him with a small hopeful smile and wondered when she’d last truly grinned and laughed in pure mirth. She couldn’t remember. What a depressing realization it was.

He didn’t exactly smile back, but his expression softened, and his lips bore the ghost of a curve for a half second.

The wedding night was upon them sooner than Sansa expected - time had a way of slipping through one’s fingers when one wasn't paying attention.

They’d sent word to all the northern houses, inviting representatives to serve as witnesses to their union, and all save the Boltons — who were dead and buried, she’d seen to that personally — had heeded their summons.

She had but to walk out of the room, join her newly appointed handmaiden and make her way down to the godswood, where they all awaited her arrival to begin the ceremony. No one was walking down the aisle with her this time -- she had no one left to give her away. It was just her and Jon. And he obviously couldn’t be the one to do it.

No matter, she could do it alone. She preferred it even.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror, smoothing down the lines of her skirt. She turned around and headed for the door, hesitating for just a moment with her hand hovering above the knob.

She set her shoulders, squared her back and opened the door. Jaidyn, the new handmaiden, scurried to her feet outside, bowing her head in deference. She’d requested the girl to give her a few minutes alone in the room, after she was done fixing her hair and adornments.

“Are you ready, Lady Stark?” she asked, voice airy and musical. She was a young thing, pretty too, with her golden brown locks and plump rounded face. Sansa couldn’t recall now, but she thought the girl must be about four and ten.

“I am. Come, let us descend to the hall. The ceremony awaits.”

Jaidyn nodded and stepped beside her. Sansa slipped her arm under hers and hooked it by the elbow, in typical ladies’ pose.

They made their way to the lower level of the keep, through the hall where several servants scutteled about, preparing the considerably small banquet Sansa had allowed after much revision of their stocks, and outside into the courtyard.

They walked slowly and leisurely, having no need to hurry in their steps.

Sansa looked up at the sky, watching the stars and the moon as they beamed and glimmered above. The sky had been overcast when she last wed, dark clouds rolling overhead and obscuring all light but the one coming from their lanterns. An omen from the gods.

This night was clear though, brisk and bright, although not cold enough to nip at her nose and fingertips. It was rather uncommon, this late in the summer. She hoped this was a sign as well, that she was finally in the right. Gods knew she could use some good fortune.

They passed under the arches leading to the godswood, coming across a trail marked with winter primroses and snowdrops for them to follow. The flowers laid atop batches of melting snow, from the frosts of the recent days, a few lanterns spaced in between them to light the path. She glanced at blooms in surprise, not expecting the display. She hadn’t written this down as instruction for the preparations.

“Jaidyn, who arranged this?”

“The smallfolk did, my Lady,” she explained, an eager note to her tone. “They’ve been collecting and gifting the flowers to the high steward. For arraying at the wedding, you see? It’s been happening for little over half a sennight now. We laid them out this morning.”

Sansa hummed, a pleased warmth settling in her chest. It seemed she was right. If the smallfolk were embracing them this dearly, their good lords would be pressured to follow suit.

They treaded lightly against the soft fallen snow, crunching quietly underneath their feet. Soon other lanterns were visible in the distance. First a single haze of light, then a dozen small beacons in the night, marking their destination.

She kept her head high and she did not falter when they reached the gathering, even under the weight of all those eyes. She paused and Jaidyen left her side, unlacing their arms and hying herself to join the other stewards and servants. This next part she had to do alone.

She took a step forward, ignoring the gazes laid upon her, then another. This was the part she most disliked. She found it ironic that it had once been the very thing she longed for. She looked up and searched for Jon’s face instead, finding him near the septon before the heart tree, brooding and pensive as ever.

He met her gaze, an inscrutable look in his eyes, and she moored herself to the sight, using him as a guiding line forward.

She didn’t really remember crossing the distance, the entire thing passed in a blur, but, sooner than she expected, she was paused at the front of the walkway formed by the crowd, waiting on the septon to say the words.

“Who comes before the old Gods this night?” the familiar line echoed in her ears, spoken in the resonant raspy tune of the old man officiating the ceremony.

She swallowed and parted her lips, taking a moment to dampen them before responding -- they had grown dry and chilled in the crisp nightly breeze.

“Sansa, of House Stark, comes here to be wed. Last heiress and trueborn daughter to Winterfell and the North, who comes to beg the blessings of the gods in wedlock.”

“Who comes to claim her?”

Jon shifted his weight on his feet, eyes boring into her. She did not look away, hadn’t since she reached the fore. He took a handful of seconds replying, some complicated emotion obviously tearing at his reason -- she could the tempest in those stormy grey eyes.

What he had to say -- he plainly didn’t approve of it. She knew it well, she had been the one who’d insisted on it, after all. They needed to make it clear before all the present witnesses.

“Jon, of House… Targaryen,” he intoned with a grimace, almost spitting out the word. It clearly left a foul taste in his mouth. She understood the sentiment. “Trueborn and noble, made Stark by this union. King in the North and kin to Eddard Stark, last true warden of the North.”

The septon nodded and she stepped forward, taking her place before John and the heart tree, to the left of the septon.

“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” The old man carried on, speaking of the Gods and auguring on the future, sermonizing on blessings and short winters. She did not pay him much heed.

Jon stood before her, unbudging and unwavering. If she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t listening to much of it either.

She wondered, not for the first time, what was on his mind. What did he see, when he looked at her? The little girl that had borne him no love or affection, preferring to stuck her nose up at him than to engage in polite chatter; the young lady broken and beaten by her families enemies, brought to heel at their feet; or the woman that had come out the other end, hardened and weathered by the hardships and trifles of a life harsh lived?

Did he view her as a sister, as a cousin or as a stranger?

The rest of the ceremony flew by. She was only brought out of her reveries when the septon produced the binding ribbon and reached out for their hands. She extended hers and felt the weight of Jon’s being laid upon it, warm and calloused from toil.

“Let it be known that Sansa and Jon of House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul,” the septon recited as he tied the wedlock knot around their outstretched hands. “Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

She looked down, taking in the details of the white silk cloth, looped around them beautifully and binding for life. She’d been bound twice before, under duress and deception. While those were valid grounds for annulment, the words ought to have lost their significance to her. Somehow, though, standing here underneath the crown of the heart tree and the night stars, she did feel like this would finally be her one and last true binding, like the old Gods were indeed present in this godswood.

She wondered if her father was among them.

 _I'll make you a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who is brave and gentle and strong_ , hadn’t those been his words? She doubted he’d have foreseen this outcome, but in a way, she felt he’d kept his word.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Her gaze laid upon Jon as requested, who had not glanced away from her since the start, and opened her mouth to speak the words.

His voice matched hers, a deep sober lull, and they intoned their vows in unisom, calling on all of the seven to presentiate.

As they finished, the summons of the Stranger dying on her lips, the night grew awfully quiet. Even the wind and the grills seemed to hush as all eyes fell upon them, expecting the finishing rite. She stared at Jon as well, feeling oddly nervous as she awaited his cue.

She could feel his gaze upon her like a burning brand, making her shift uncomfortably on her feet. His eyes sparked with a familiar gleam, she could see the challenge in them. That encounter in her bedchamber all those nights ago came to her unprompted, his utter confusion and perseverance to do as honor demanded fresh in her mind.

He was asking her one last time.

She would not say no.

He recognized the decision in her eyes as she made it, she could see it amply on his face. She saw the way he braced himself, as if preparing for a onrush in battle, straightening his back and rising to his full height. He seemed to almost tower over her like this. He stepped forward, firm and sure, and she did the same.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, full and pink from the cold. He did have very nice lips.

A memory came to her, of her elder brother and Theon Greyjoy teasing Jon on the castle courtyard when they were green boys, just shy of thirteen. Such pretty looks he had, they’d said. She was inclined to agree.

He leaned down, a slow dip of his neck, and she closed her eyes.

The wind rushed in her ears.

She felt lips prodding at her own, chapped and warm and, above all, gentle. He kissed her slowly and smoothly, the kind of tenderness one would expect from a long lost love, and she sagged against him, letting him mold himself to her.

She returned the slow moving exchange and felt his hand settling on her neck, bunching the strands of hair at her nape.

It was much too intense and consuming for what she’d been expecting. Not even when she’d been young and naive, taken with the unknown monster Joffrey turned out to be, had she felt like this.

The kiss grew warm and zealous, picking up the pace, but it did not evolve past the soft caress of lips. It was neither time nor place.

When he pulled back, a cold dampness replacing his stead, nipped at by the crisp breeze, her eyes flickered open and she almost leaned forward, as if chasing the feel of him. She caught herself before the act though, and looked up at him once more, curious to what she’d find now.

There was something new in his eyes, something dark and stormy, a flare of hunger and want, but it was gone in the flicker of a flame, just as soon as she’d seen it.


End file.
